


Pomp and Circumstance

by thatrandomnpc



Series: MadaTobi Week 2018 [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, aka the one somewhere in the middle of a hidden and fake relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 15:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15512781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatrandomnpc/pseuds/thatrandomnpc
Summary: The cover of new lovers is admittedly not a bad one. Most people have the tendency to politely look the other way with a romantic couple in public. Given Izuna’s skill at establishing the outflow of rumors from Konoha as those of stability of cohesion, most of these civilians won’t even pay the startled sort of attention those in the village would to see them working without open argument.It’s just that Hashirama and Izuna are blissfully ignorant of the fact that Madara and Tobirama have been sleeping together for a little over three months now.





	Pomp and Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> So... Yeah. My first attempt at writing anything with some smut to post. xD Hopefully it's not entirely cringe-worthy. Again, pretty quick post since I'm on a bit of a tighter schedule than I thought until, ironically, MadaTobi week is over. I did get the chance to look over this one a bit more, so hopefully not quite as many typos. Thanks to everyone for all the wonderful support thus far in the week! 
> 
> As always, please do go give some love to everyone participating in MadaTobi week. Hope you enjoy!

Objectively, Madara is not an ideal candidate for an infiltration mission. First and foremost, he’s easily identifiable. Uchiha looks are relatively homogeneous and infamous, from the true black of their eyes to the slopes of their features. There are exceptions, of course, but the general rule of thumb is enough to catch eyes in Fire Country. Even without his gunbai and armor, his hair, at least, is somewhat unique. Furthermore, unlike Hashirama, whose genial, ditzy personality rarely makes for the impression that the man is the God of Shinobi to outsiders, Madara’s demeanor very much befits his reputation. 

He tells Izuna as much, but Izuna argues that his being easily recognizable is the  _ point _ in this case. _“_ _ Aburame found that they’re interested in high-profile targets with desirable kekkei genkai. Can you think of anyone in the village better suited? _ ”

The Hyuuga matriarch, for one. Aburame, herself actually. Hatake. Any number of the other clan heads. But then… 

None of them are co-founders of Konoha and Hashirama’s eventual successor either. Given the handful of vague information Hashirama has managed to scrape from the currently unaligned shinobi of Fire Country, ‘high-profile’ in this case very much refers to political power as well. 

Regardless, more than his infamy, Madara is a proud man with a short temper. He’s shinobi enough to play a part for a mission, but it certainly isn’t his strongest attribute. That, of course, would be one of Izuna’s, yet Madara would rather gouge his own eyes out and hand them over to the bloodline hunters personally than suggest Izuna risk himself on a mission such as this. 

Somehow, however, for all that Madara is ill-suited to these sorts of missions, it seems that Tobirama is somehow inexplicably  _ worse _ . 

“We’re very pleased to welcome you on such a special occasion!” the hostess greets pleasantly. Quite the spine on that one, Madara notes with approval. She knows exactly who they are, after all. They’ve been careful to not broadcast themselves but not hide either. But then… Madara supposes he still isn’t quite accustomed to being seen as part of Konoha, which has begun to earn something of a peacekeeping reputation, rather than part of a warmongering, glorified mercenary clan. “Is there anything you’ll be needing?” 

“Herbicide,” Tobirama grumbles sourly. 

Madara glares at him and discretely digs an elbow into his side. The Senju grunts but otherwise doesn’t move. Madara suspects he would scowl if his face hadn’t already been frozen like a sulking brat since they left the village. “Nothing,” Madara covers.  

The hostess blinks, entirely caught off guard but recovers well enough. Spine, indeed, to stare up at an angry Tobirama without an ounce of chakra and stand ground. He expects that says nothing good about the sort of patrons she's used to receiving.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Madara adds. 

He steps aside and waits to see if he will be forced to physical drag Tobirama behind him. Fortunately for their cover, Tobirama professionally complies and walks on, even if that scowl is still firmly in place. Madara narrows his eyes warningly but says nothing yet.

The inn is one of the finest in Fire Country, so naturally it’s quite crowded. The establishment has made a name for itself in the way of discretion, meaning that prominent shinobi and nobility frequently use it as neutral ground for meetings they prefer to remain relatively under wraps. Aburame is the one who noticed the pattern here: the missing shinobi had passed through the inn at least a week prior to their disappearance. 

Thus, Madara will play along with this farce in an attempt to draw out whoever is foolish enough to attempt to attack him. He still maintains that sending Tobirama is an overabundance of precaution. Or perhaps Izuna had meant to send someone to draw further attention to them. After all, Tobirama, with his distinct looks, is just as recognizable as Madara, even if his lack of kekkei genkai puts him very low on this list of targets. 

The Senju opens the door to the room and freezes. Killing intent pours off of him in waves. Madara is frankly impressed that the fingers wrapped around door frame are careful enough not to crush the thin wood into splinters.

Madara peers over his shoulder and snorts. 

There are flowers set out. Sake. An overabundance of little details that imply that this is very much the celebratory trip for a pair of lovers that Izuna billed it as. 

There is a bed, however, and Madara has had enough of a lifetime of sleeping in the forest or in trees not to appreciate that simple luxury. 

He steps around Tobirama and picks up the sake to examine it for signs of tampering. Nothing that he can see without a taste. 

A click of the door shutting behind him signals Tobirama stepping fully inside. 

“I’m going to strangle them,” the Senju swears. 

Madara narrows his eyes. This song and dance is wearing thin on his already tested patience. “Hit too close to home, Senju?” he snaps, tone deceptively placid. He can afford to now that they’re alone. On the road, there had been far too much foot traffic to risk such an obvious sign of disagreement. Those inside the village know of their infamous penchant for volatile disagreements. Those outside would naturally view it with some suspicion, given their cover. 

Madara half suspects that this particular backstory is the result of three years of forcing Izuna to keep rumors of dissent among the founders under careful wraps. 

Red eyes snap up, the scowl loosening for the first time that afternoon. “That isn’t--” 

Madara sets down the sake and allows himself to fall back against the bed dismissively. “Then what is?” he counters, “They didn’t know; this was a convenient joke. Your  _ stellar _ reputation remains intact.” 

The cover of new lovers is admittedly not a bad one. Most people have the tendency to politely look the other way with a romantic couple in public. Given Izuna’s skill at establishing the outflow of rumors from Konoha as those of stability of cohesion, most of these civilians won’t even pay the startled sort of attention those in the village would to see them working without open argument. 

While he isn’t fond of the mission, he’s more than familiar with bloodline hunters and their tactics; to show up armed and alone would be a declaration, and most hunters are very much aware that to face Madara in direct confrontation would hilarious foolish. Madara even grudgingly understands the necessity of sending two shinobi on such a mission, if he’s feeling generous; this group of hunters is clearly avoiding direct confrontation with their targets. Even someone of their caliber is more likely to be taken off guard alone. Between Tobirama’s gift for analytics and Madara’s Sharingan and familiarity with their opponents, their skill set is very much suited to discrete investigation in some ways. 

It’s just that Hashirama and Izuna are blissfully ignorant of the fact that Madara and Tobirama have been sleeping together for a little over three months now. They think of this partially as a joke. A way to get back at their brothers for constantly arguing. 

(If Madara were honest with himself, he supposes it’s partially his own fault for falling into bed repeatedly with a man he’s most known for having heated arguments with, but then… Madara is very good at justifying his own poorly conceived, impulsive decisions.) 

“You’ve misread the situation,” Tobirama counters, expression once again twisted up in that scowl. There’s something else in his eyes now, but Madara is too irritated to bother reading it. 

The Uchiha raises a brow, “Oh? Your tantrum seemed to indicate otherwise.” 

With an annoyed  _ tch _ , Tobirama glances away with the beginnings of one of those petulent pouts curling at his lips. “I’m not having this conversation when you’re like this.” 

“Odd,” Madara seethes, “I would going to say something similar, but then… I suppose we would never have that conversation otherwise, would we?” 

He absently wonders if it’s typical for one lover to storm out in a tantrum less than half an hour after arriving at a supposed vacation. 

Probably not. 

  
  
  


The afternoon is uneventful. Madara wanders around the grounds and sits in the gardens for a moment to allow his irritation to properly stew while Tobirama is… doing whatever it is he’s doing. He returns to the room to take dinner alone and attempts to rationalize what, exactly, it is about these sorts of retreats that others enjoy so much. He, for one, would much rather run through katas or take his birds out into the fields for a hunt. 

Madara is not a man who is accustomed to idleness. 

In the end, he lays down early to see if any foolish hunters feel like trying their luck while he’s alone, playing at sleep, and in desperate need of something constructive to unleash his irritation on. He doubts it. None of the targets went missing  _ from _ the inn, but he suspects that something was done here to make them more vulnerable to later attack.

He’s only just reaching tired when Tobirama’s chakra approaches. The door slides open and closed again. No audible footsteps because the Senju is catty in more ways than one. The bed dips. 

Madara opens his mouth to correct the bastard’s erroneous assumption that he’ll be sleeping anywhere but the floor for the night, but a warm, calloused hand slides soothingly up his spine. Lips press apologetically against the side of his neck. He frowns, shuts his eyes, and senses for any signs of onlookers. 

None. No one is watching. 

He feels the curve of Tobirama’s resulting frown against his skin before the Senju pulls back just far enough to lay down properly. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs, “You  _ have _ misread the situation.” 

Madara slides his cold feet against Tobirama’s obnoxiously well-shaped legs in petty vengeance. “Not tonight, Senju,” he says warningly. 

Tobirama seems to accept that the fact that Madara not physically shoving him off of the mattress is the full extent of his magnanimity for the night. 

Madara pointedly ignores the familiarity of falling asleep next to Senju Tobirama. 

  
  
  


Breakfast is a tense affair. A host brings food to the room and mutters a rushed “ _ Please enjoy _ ” as he hurries out of the door. Madara ignores him in favor of more pointedly ignoring _Tobirama_ and his increasingly frustration. He is self-aware enough to know that the familiarity of this soothes his temper, just as he knows Tobirama won’t stand to be ignored much longer. 

Halfway through breakfast, the Senju’s patience reaches its abrupt end, “We mutually agreed that Hashirama and Izuna would know nothing of our…  _ arrangement _ . You hardly have the right to act like an ass based on the incorrect assumption that I care what they know or don’t know, even if that had been the case.” 

Madara hums, deceptively placid. He’s learned that  _ that _ infuriates Tobirama far more than any yelling he may do. Furthermore, Madara  _ is _ a professional, and the walls are thin enough that at least six civilians would hear him yell with ease. “‘Incorrect assumption,’” Madara repeats skeptically, “Is that what you’re calling sulking from one side of Fire Country to the other?” 

Tobirama’s eyes narrow. “Do you ever bother confirming your assumptions before you leap to conclusions?” 

Madara represses the childish desire to snap back ‘ _ Do you?’ _ He very much recalls the moment they agreed to discretion. Remembers the teeth scraping against his neck and the way his fingers dug into the solid muscle of Tobirama’s thighs. Too many questions they’d agreed. The weight of Hashirama’s romanticized expectations and Izuna’s overprotective paranoia were not something either of them wanted to bother with when the reality of the matter had been that they simply wanted a physical outlet for the frustration and stress.

_ (Some days, he revels in Hashirama’s assertions that he’s a good man; other days, the weight of those unwanted expectations and inevitable disappointment are galling.) _

“Because my conclusion was  _ entirely _ unfounded,” Madara counters dryly, “Or was Hashirama right, and your face finally just stuck like that?” 

Tobirama’s fists clench atop his knees. The amount of control it takes for him to not yell, given the build up of tension yesterday, must be monumental. Madara smirks just to make the job that much more difficult. Judging by the tick at the Senju’s jaw, that silent barb hits the mark perfectly. 

“I am angry,” Tobirama seethes, “because making a  _ joke _ out of this mission could cost you your life or your eyes.” 

...It objectively infuriates Madara when Tobirama takes him entirely off guard in the span of a sentence. The abrupt loss of control of the situation is not something he entirely deals well with. He’s had a lifetime to equate loss of control with casualties of loved ones and those under his command.

Madara frowns and staunchly dismisses the pang of heat in his chest as irritation for the grievous underestimation of his skills. 

( _ He knows better than that, but… Well,, denial is a beautiful thing at times. _ ) 

Before Madara can regroup, Tobirama sighs irritably, red eyes sharply observing Madara’s displeasure. “I’m aware that you’re a match for Hashirama in combat,” he amends, “But this will not be a direct confrontation until they believe you’re vulnerable, and they only need to be lucky once.” 

Madara’s frown deepens. Under any other circumstance, he would mock the man’s sudden neglect to mention his title as the fastest shinobi of their time--for the lack of pride in it, considering Izuna and Hashirama have essentially sent him with Madara as a glorified bodyguard. And yet… 

Madara has slept next to Tobirama enough now to know that he sometimes wakes from nightmares with his little brothers’ names on his lips. Sits up in the middle of the night, breath shaking, to push the sweaty hair from his forehead with guilt and shame on his face, broken in  soundless desolation. It was never unexpected. Madara knows Izuna screams in the night sometimes when he wakes and forgets why he can’t see. That Hashirama sometimes wakes with ugly, broken sobs. Touka isn’t so visceral, so far as he knows in the single extended mission he’s taken with her team, but she  _ does _ pace back and forth after an episode as though the memories physically nip at her heels. 

Madara wakes too often from his nightmares with the Mangekyo spinning in his eyes and fire roiling under his skin. He’d done as much once, next to Tobirama and remembers the heavy, full-body flinch the moment their eyes met. 

They’re all broken in places: relics of a now bygone era, who still haven’t entirely convinced themselves that the peace they live in now is real in some ways. 

“You,” Madara states blandly, “are even infuriating when you’re concerned.” 

Embarrassed red splashes attractively across Tobirama’s face. His eyes narrow, and he folds his arms stubbornly over his chest. “And you should take this threat more seriously,” he counters. 

Madara quirks a brow, “Is it not the point that I seem off guard,  _ dear? ”  _

Tobirama’s glare falters at the mock endearment but quickly reasserts itself. “You’re mocking me.” 

Madara folds his hands lazily within his sleeves. Fire Country isn’t particularly known for its winter chill, but it is admittedly somewhat cooler toward the border for a native of the lands surrounding Konoha. He could easily use his chakra to regulate his temperature, but he’d rather not draw attention to the fact that he makes for an absurd target for anyone without questionable self-preservation instinct. 

Madara allows an amused smirk to pull at the corner of his lips, “Did it require all of your genius to figure that out?”

He catches the peach tossed at his head on reflex. 

He does  _ not _ mull over the Senju’s concern, much less the considering, thoughtful look in those red eyes. 

That look has never meant anything good as far as Madara’s sanity is concerned.

  
  
  


In retrospect, Madara would amend that there is a third reason that he and Tobirama are ill-suited to this mission. They’re both private men who are not especially known for public displays of affection, even among family and friends. By silent agreement, they choose not to pretend that they are any different here aside from appearing publicly together and limiting their arguments. They walk the gardens, alternating between comfortable silence and light bickering. Village business isn’t tabled for discussion, even in code. 

If someone is watching, neither of them are willing to risk giving any information that may grant kekkei genkai hunters access the richest conglomerate of bloodlines in Fire Country. 

There’s an odd sort of laziness about the whole day, even if they both remain on alert for any stray detail from the ordinary. They’re careful to take meals in private. While Madara eats food from the kitchens, Tobirama unseals rations from a storage scroll. Yet Madara feels nothing akin to poison or sedative, and Tobirama’s repeated exams of his systems finds nothing deviating from baseline either. 

There  _ is _ nothing, it seems. Or, more likely, their target is merely taking the time to observe them.  

Madara takes a half-hour out of the afternoon to visit the local shrine alone. He’s not an especially superstitious man, but he does light incense regularly for the many dead he carries with him. This isn’t about Madara’s grief, however--he would  _ never _ air as much anywhere outside of the privacy of Uchiha shrines--but rather putting distance between himself and Tobirama to lure the hunters out. 

The entire day culminates in nothing out of the ordinary insofar as the inn is concerned. 

Tobirama, however… 

As soon as Tobirama arms the detection seals scattered about their room (something that would seem peculiar for even a vacationing shinobi to not have), Madara feels his gaze intent on his back. Even now, there’s something particularly alluring about the preemptive feeling of danger in turning his back to a Senju--even one he could overpower. He smirks over his shoulder just to tempt those red eyes into dipping unconsciously to his lips as Tobirama approaches. 

Madara turns and pushes up into the bruising kiss that follows. Tobirama’s hands sweep up to his shoulders and give a coaxing push. Madara allows his back to be pressed against the wall. Groans into the delicious pressure of the thigh that rubs perfectly against his cock. He reaches up to tip Tobirama's head just right to deepen the kiss. Long fingers skim down his chest, pulling his kimono astray, and teasing across the exposed skin of his chest and over his ribs.

He moans, hips bucking, when Tobirama leans down to suck at the spot on his neck that sends a bolt of pleasure down his spine. A smirk curls against the sensitive skin before Tobirama lavishes what will no doubt be a mark in the morning with an appeasing lick and hooks his fingers on Madara's obi. Tobirama pulls back, red eyes glinting slyly, “Still infuriating, am I?” 

Madara attempts a scowl. He’s unsure how effective it is when Tobirama rolls his hips just enough to shift the slide of Madara’s cock against his thigh. 

“Always,” Madara bites off, breath hitching. 

Tobirama pulls back a fraction. Madara’s pride traps the disappointed groan between his teeth in favor of mustering up the tattered remains of his control. 

Naturally, that’s when Tobirama slides to his knees. 

Madara blinks--makes a vaguely embarrassing noise--but the surprise is quickly washed away by the hot desire curling low in his stomach. Tobirama smirks up at him through snowy lashes, tugging the obi loose with deft fingers. A pale brow quicks up in a silent question. 

Madara cups his cheek, thumb brushing against Tobirama's bottom lip with a nod. Hisses a surprised breath when Tobirama sucks the digit into his mouth, runs his tongue across the calloused pad and pulls off with a suggestive pop in the quiet room. "Smug bastard," Madara admonishes. His voice comes out too breathy for the words to properly bite. 

( _ Fond _ , he thinks, and immediately self-corrects that thought. _Dangerous_. He's already gotten angry with the apparently false idea that Tobirama would be ashamed at the others even insinuating something like this exists between them. )

Long fingers tease the length of his shaft, pleasure drowning out his thoughts. The sly, smug look on Tobirama's face, given his position less than a foot aware from Madara's erect cock is, frankly, one of the most attractive images he’s ever been privy to. Tobirama leans forward, breath ghosting over the head as he chuckles, "You seem to be enjoying yourself." 

Tobirama gives him no time for a rebuttal. Madara bites off a moan into his fist when Tobirama grips his hips and takes him in to that hot, wet heat. His head hits the wall with a dull thump, and he forces himself not to thrust up while he grips carefully at Tobirama's hair. Madara knows Tobirama, who has only taken a lover or two in the past, hasn't performed this particular act before. There are hints of it in the way he’s careful not to take too much at a time, covers what he can’t with his hand. Madara has never quite appreciated Tobirama’s shameless enthusiasm for experimentation quite so much as he does in times like these. He musters the tattered remains of his self control long enough to gently tug the white hair in his hands the way he knows Tobirama enjoys. 

Tobirama moans, and the vibration of it has Madara's hips twitching up into that warm pressure. He hears cloth rustle and looks down, distracted by the sight of his cock disappearing behind those clever lips as Tobirama bobs his head. It takes longer than he likes to realize one of the Senju's hands has released Madara's hips to slip past his own clothes in favor of stroking his own cock in a matching rhythm. 

Madara only notices his Sharingan is active when the low light of the room comes into sharp clarity. Tobirama pulls back, meets his eyes in the dark, and it's too late then to turn them back off. He stills but doesn't flinch away. Madara braces for disappointment regardless.

Tobirama pulls off of Madara's cock with an obscene pop that entirely disarms the Uchiha. He stands while Madara attempts to gather some semblance of higher mental faculties. He expects... something. Disgust. Fear. An argument. Tobirama to turn away or walk away. Not outside, naturally, given the proud curve of his own erection, but...

Tobirama holds his gaze. Presses fully against Madara and frames his face with his hands to tip his head back for a sloppy kiss. Madara waits long enough to be sure the sight of the Sharingan so close won't yet drive Tobirama away. When it doesn't, he grabs Tobirama's ass and pulls, moaning in satisfaction at their cocks brushing. Tobirama's forehead falls against his shoulder, his ragged breaths puffing against Madara's collarbone. 

"Bed," he groans against Madara's skin. His voice is rougher, deeper. A clear sign of what he's just done. A shiver sparks down Madara’s spine. He smirks and slides his grip to the backs of Tobirama's thighs. He kisses the beginnings of that familiar pout off of those swollen lips as Tobirama curls his arms around his neck and allows himself to be carried to the bed, separating as little as necessary to shed the last of their clothing on the way. 

Madara slides down over him, settling between his legs. He teases a soothing hand over the rise of Tobirama's hip. In honesty, it's a temporary stall. While there had been no adverse reaction to his Sharingan before, Tobirama willingly laying on his back under the weight of an Uchiha is decidedly a more vulnerable position. They are still shinobi, after all, and Madara is hardly unaware of what his eyes represent. 

Tobirama frowns as though he's read Madara's intention. There's a softness to it though. One that Madara is entirely unsure what to do with. Tobirama tangles a hand in his hair and drags him down into another kiss, this one soft and appeasing. 

Something in Madara stills. He's so accustomed to touch being harsh the battlefield or frenzied like their usual trists. This is... 

He doesn't entirely know what to do with this.

"I knew who you were when this started," Tobirama says softly, a thumb brushing under Madara's right eye, "Leave them on if you want." 

There is a vast difference between knowing and experiencing, Madara thinks. One that speaks of far more trust than reasonable for meaningless, frustrated sex.

Regardless, Madara... does. Seers the sight of Tobirama quaking with pleasure and coming apart under his hands into his memories forever. 

He's left so shaken by the whole experience that he replays it in his mind as he comes down from the afterglow, staring into the pillow with his head still resting on Tobirama's shoulder. Objectively, he's aware that asking "What the hell was that?" less than fifteen minutes after orgasm is not especially appropriate. 

But then, he expects that having a relationship in which one is entirely confused when an argument doesn't preempt sex isn’t especially ‘appropriate’ either.

"You were angry," Tobirama answers simply, "It stands to reason this has the potential to mean more." 

The idea... is not as abjectly disturbing as Madara might have once thought. Tobirama's tone isn't ashamed. Slightly hesitant but in the way that means he has a stake to lose in this. That in and of itself should be unnerving, but... 

It isn't.

"Is that your attempt at asking to court me?" he snorts, "You have an abysmal sense of timing. Try again." 

Tobirama’s chest moves with the insulted huff that Madara does  _ not _ find amusingly endearing. Still, his fingers draw soothing, nonsense patterns across Madara’s back. Madara falls asleep like that, settled in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time. 

  
  
  


There’s an old woman at the shrine the next evening. Madara has seen her around the inn. She’s civilian as they come, but there’s something sharp about her gaze that reminds him more than a bit of the vague memories he has of his grandmother. She’d been a wildcard among the clan, apparently, refusing to permit Tajima to marry her daughter until he could best her in combat. He remembers his father’s face souring at the mention of her name. 

Madara waits while she lights a stick of incense, offers her prayers, and steps back. 

She shamelessly catches his gaze, and Madara holds it. She doesn’t flinch or turn away even though he has the distinct impression she’s aware of his identity. 

With a huff, she eventually turns back to the shrine, “That man of yours is quite the looker, sour face and all.” 

Madara snorts. “One of his better qualities.” It’s… oddly anticlimactic, someone referring to Tobirama as Madara’s anything without the necessity of obligatory protests. The world doesn’t suddenly shift on its axis. Nothing fundamental changes in Madara’s perception; it simply  _ is _ . But then… There’s a love bite peering from beneath his collar, and the thought of leaving his own, visible mark on the pale stretch of Tobirama’s neck is… 

Well, not especially conducive to remaining in public. 

The woman rolls her eyes, “Seems to me Uchiha Madara could find a pretty face for less effort if that’s all he wanted.” 

Madara quirks a brow, surprised and half-incredulous. He allows the lazy smirk to curl at his lips, “I prefer a challenge. One might imagine you could relate.” Most civilians outside of the village who knew his name tended to avoid him, not go out of their way to banter about his love life. 

She raises a brow incredulously, “When your brother arranged this visit, I was given the distinct impression you and Senju weren’t so…  _ close _ .” 

_ Ah. _ This woman is the inn owner. That… makes quite a bit more sense then. Izuna had mentioned that she had been member of the Daimyo’s court in her younger years. That perhaps went a way to explain her lack of trepidation. Given who she is, her appearance here is likely not a coincidence. 

Frankly, given the implication that Izuna has spoken to her personally, Madara reminds himself to commend his brother for securing such a valuable source of information. 

Madara considers her a moment, “Tobirama is easily bored by consistency. I imagine you may have some insight as to what on the grounds may be unusual enough to catch his attention.” 

The innkeeper smirks at him, seemingly pleased at the discretion, “I wouldn’t know well enough to be certain what might interest your man, but I might guess the grove would if nothing else. Some of the staff find the place unnerving these days, but I imagine you shinobi would be attracted to that sort of thing.” 

“I see,” Madara replies, pleased enough. 

  
  
  


Tobirama agrees without argument. 

“A civilian, most likely,” he adds abruptly. At Madara’s questioning look, he glances up from the book he’s propped up on his bent knees. Apparently there’s more hidden away in the storage scroll than rations, weapons, and armor. “There are shinobi here, but none of the staff possess developed chakra coils. Therefore it stands to reason that a civilian is cooperating with the hunters.” 

The disappearances are spaced too far apart and are too random in interval to have been the work of a patron, repeat visitor or otherwise. “You have an idea?” Madara asks, sitting on the edge of the bed while he works on drying his hair.

It’s… bizarrely domestic, even on a mission. Those moments always sit ill at ease with Madara. The moment his guard slips, he expects an attack, even in the objective safety of the village. He has the scars from that painfully learned lesson carved into his body, and he suspects a lifetime will not entirely reverse that instinct.

Tobirama shakes his head, “Someone in a mobile position would be ideal but not necessary.” 

Kitchens were the obvious bet, but then… Madara expects someone else would’ve dealt with this before it became Konoha’s problem if it were that simple. “You don’t suspect the old woman?” 

Tobirama shakes his head, “Izuna is skilled at choosing contacts.” 

Madara agrees with the caveat that Izuna would also have investigated the innkeeper before requesting someone to assign to the mission directly. They’re no closer to the culprit then and are at an impasse for the night. He permits himself to shift subjects, “She knows.” 

There’s a certain fascination to watching how quickly Tobirama processes information. The spark of confusion shifts to a lifted brow and red eyes locked on Madara’s marked neck in the span of seconds. “I can’t imagine how she gathered that,” comes the bone-dry retort. 

“She’s Izuna’s contact,” Madara points out, settling back on his side of the bed. He glances at the book, finding Mito’s handwriting in the margins. Sealing, then. Or suiton. He glances up quickly enough, considering Tobirama’s reaction. 

Clearly, the man is aware of Madara’s intention, if the sharp, disapproving frown is any indication. “If you wish to stop this before it becomes complicated, then say as much,” he says, tone deceptively blank for that particular look, “You know what I want. Do with that what you will.” 

Madara…  _ does _ know what Tobirama wants. Not necessarily from him but from life in general. It’s hard not to when he’s seen the bittersweet, lingering looks the man sends at his brother, sister-in-law, and their growing family. Tobirama wants that. Perhaps not the same unorthodox brand of affection between Hashirama and Mito, but family nevertheless. 

Madara doesn’t answer. Won’t until he’s certain that’s something he’s interested in as well. 

They owe each other that much honesty. 

  
  
  
  


They go to the grove the following day. 

Visitors, Madara realizes, rarely come to the peach grove. 

They walk for fifteen minutes without a single soul in sight. It's objectively beautiful, but Madara feels something... off. He senses nothing. No one save for a few non-shinobi around the grove. Even if he can find no reason…

He feels eyes on the back of his neck. 

He leans into Tobirama’s side. Given that they’re hardly so physically affectionate in public, the gestures earns him Tobirama’s attention easily. Madara smiles to play into the act, but his eyes wander pointedly around them. Tobirama tilts his head curiously but maintains the ruse of easy affection. 

Madara still feels the faint sensation of Tobirama’s chakra focusing on their surroundings. 

Tobirama frowns brows pinched curiously. He shakes his eye discretely, pairing it with a fond sigh for the sake of appearances. Madara forgos the urge to frown. Apparently Tobirama senses nothing but hasn’t dismissed Madara’s instinct either. 

The sensation lessens when they return from the otherwise uneventful trip. 

“Someone was watching,” Tobirama murmurs, head tucked against Madara’s shoulder to prevent any potential of lip reading, “I couldn’t sense anything about them. Certainly not a civilian.” 

Madara frowns, fingers absently running through Tobirama’s hair. Madara’s sensory chakra has been fooled before. If  _ Tobirama  _ can’t sense anything whatsoever… 

“They’ll move soon,” Madara muses aloud. 

Tobirama nods in agreement. The lines of his face are thoughtful and guarded. “I would be curious to know how they’ve managed to completely conceal their chakra.” Madara rolls his eyes.  _ Naturally _ , the Senju is turning over how to achieve that particular feat already. Still, Tobirama’s hand traces the gnarled path of a scar from a wound that nearly killed Madara as a teenager. It’s unusually sentimental, but then… 

Madara supposes very little about this mission has been typical. 

“Should the opportunity arise to engage in a bit of academic inquiry with a would-be assassin,” Madara replies dry, “I’ll be sure to ask.” 

Tobirama frowns, entirely unimpressed. Still… there’s something else hidden away in the lines of his face. Concern, Madara thinks. 

He stays awake and feigns sleep during his half of the watch that night and realizes that this has already somehow progressed far beyond ‘complicated.’ 

  
  
  


Naturally Tobirama goes missing on the fourth day because the Senju is, even against his will, an unrepentant asshole, whose goal in life appears to be driving Madara’s hair as white as his own. 

Madara feels the flare of familiar chakra while he’s making the daily trip to the shrine. Senses it vanish and suspects hirashin. 

Tobirama’s chakra doesn’t reappear. Madara never senses his attacker.

That leaves three possibilities: a hirashin to a point outside of Madara’s range, an opponent with similar capabilities, or an opponent with some means of completely sealing chakra. 

Madara tears through the inn and pushes through through crowd of staff and spectators gathered around the room. He doesn’t even notice the pressure of his chakra and killing intent until he’s unsealed his armor and weapons from the storage scroll that somehow managed to roll under the bed in the struggle. When he turns, there are pale-faced civilians shaking on the ground. 

His Sharingan are active, taking in every minute detail underneath the obvious scorch marks from exploding tags and soaked floor mats, and he is very much aware of the fearsome picture he makes. 

There are shinobi in the inn. Foreign and unaligned, as far as he’s been able to tell. None of their chakra signatures are missing. All of them are alert. No one from the inn, then. His sensory range pales in comparison to Tobirama’s, but it’s enough to know that whoever attacked appeared in an instant and left the same. 

“What are you gawking at?” he snarls at the onlookers. 

They’re gone in seconds. Madara makes quick work of sliding into the comfort of his armor while he examines the room. 

Without the Sharingan, he would’ve missed the spark of chakra. A hiraishin seal tucked away out of sight underneath the desk. Madara frowns. If Tobirama placed it there, then… 

He plans to return to this point, assuming he’s able. 

He doesn’t know the range of hirashin (a fact he intends to demand clarification on the second he’s able). He  _ does _ , however, realize that he has a choice: rush off in an aimless direction and hope to find some sense of Tobirama or wait and trust his capability to return to this point. 

Madara grits his teeth. He’s never been especially good at sitting idle in these situations. He is the head of a clan. He's been groomed to be responsible for defending his comrades since he could walk. 

Tobirama, he realizes aburptly, has very much become one of those in his own entirely unorthodox, pain in the ass way. 

He sends off a set of summons because he can’t afford not to and leans against the wall. 

It’s one of the tensest waits of his life. 

Before he truly registers the sudden reappearance of Tobirama’s chakra, instinct has him forming hand seals. Fire erupts into the room, careful and narrow in the confined space. Tobirama still has the good reflexes to drop out of the way, even if he’s out of the direct path of danger. 

Something hisses in the flames. Tobirama forms rapid hand seals. As soon as Madara’s flames die away, Tobirama pulls water into a razor’s edge and slices at the attacker.

For the briefest of moments, Madara feels chakra. Catches a glimpse of something shadow-like with eerie eyes watching in the steam. 

Then nothing. 

The attacker vanishes without a trace through the very ground. 

Tobirama, previously dipped into a crouch, falls back to lean against the bed. He’s breathing hard, but he doesn’t appear to be seriously injured. A few scrapes. Some bruises. What is perhaps more concerning is the flicker of chakra where an ocean should be, but even that isn’t life-threatening.

Adrenaline hot in his veins, Madara slides to his knees, grips the collar of Tobirama’s shirt, and yanks him into a bruising kiss. Tobirama responds, distracted at best, but it’s enough. Madara has enough time to assure himself that the worst of the damage is moderate chakra exhaustion. “What the hell happened, Senju?” he demands, “ _ I  _ was supposed to be the target.” 

Tobirama’s frown deepens. He’s thinking something over. The look in his eyes is grim. “I believe you were. Ultimately,” he says. When Madara opens his mouth to protest the obvious, Tobirama shakes his head, “If it hadn’t misjudged the range of hirashin, what would you have reported to Hashirama?” 

Madara tenses, fingers gripped tight around the cloth of Tobirama’s shirt. The idea of waiting for nothing… It makes him angry, but, more than that, he’s recognized the nauseating wave of fear--remembers it intimately from the days he sat with Izuna, powerless to stop him from wasting away. And now… 

Red eyes soften a fraction. Tobirama’s fingers wrap around Madara’s, slowly coaxing his grip loose. His fingers remain curled around Madara's as he speaks. “An enemy shinobi with no chakra signature caught the most skilled sensor in Fire Country off guard. That's essentially it," he says, giving a reassuring squeeze that Madara's pride aches at appriciate, "Brother, Mito, and perhaps Touka would believe you.” 

But the rest of the Senju as a whole would not. It’s no secret that he and Tobirama bicker; the secret is that the bickering hasn’t truly reached the near-violence of the first year in a very long time. Tobirama vanishing in an almost unbelievable fashion right from under the nose of an Uchiha as powerful as Madara… 

It would cause an undeniable rift in the village. Suspicion and paranoia cast where tensions are slowly easing into normalcy. This sounds much deeper than simple kekkei genkai hunters.

It sounds as though someone meant to lure Madara out and proceeded to take advantage of Tobirama's presence instead. 

“Send Hashirama word. Aburame needs to track and question her sources,” Madara decides. The rage hasn’t vanished, but the fear is passing. He watches Tobirama push himself to his feet to sit on the edge of the bed. Madara stands in front of him, ensuring that there are no hidden injuries he’s aware of. “Are you alright?” 

Tobirama nods, “Using hiraishin across long distances drains chakra.” 

Meaning that this was closer to disaster than Tobirama state indicates. 

Madara isn’t certain what he intends to say next, but the innkeeper arrives with the hostess from the first night in tow. She glaces around the room, with the singe marks, mess, and water and lifts a brow. “Well… this is quite the mess,” she muses. 

  
  
  


The old woman seems to understand what’s happened and sends the hostess--her granddaughter apparently--off to set up another room for them to stay for the night. Madara hesitates to accept, but Tobirama points out that another attack so soon is incredibly unlikely from what appears to be an otherwise cautious opponent. They’ll hardly be caught off guard again now that they’re aware that their opponent can entirely mask chakra. 

He’s correct. No one watches them the following day that can’t be easily accounted for and dismissed.

(That night, Tobirama sleeps soundly, half pressed against Madara's chest. Madara frowns into his hair and mutter _"Never_ do that again." 

Clearly Tobirama isn't quite as asleep as Madara had assumed, given the press of the exhausted smile against his skin. At least the bastard knows better than to comment for once.)

They leave early regardless under the guise that Hashirama has called them back. 

They travel quickly and quietly, both on high alert on the off chance that the target chooses to attack again, but the trip is ultimately uneventful. 

Hashirama and Mito, at least, are as disquieted by their report as Madara was witnessing it. Touka takes to tapping her fingers irritably against her armor, otherwise unreadable in her tension. Izuna frowns with the hints of guilt that Madara can only pick out because he knows to look for them in the lines of his face.

“Well,” Hashirama says, eyes dark and thoughtful, “At least we know what to look for.” 

Tobirama shakes his head, “No. All we’re currently assured of is that someone intends to destabilize the relationship between Senju and Uchiha. We can’t even be certain that the end goal is to act against the village. There are many who still hold grudges against our clans as individual entities.” 

Madara frowns. Suspects that there’s more to this encounter than Tobirama states upfront. Stubborn though he is, he isn’t the sort of man who withholds key details from a report--particularly one made to Hashirama--meaning that he’s still turning over his own thoughts and suspicions for something more grounded to report. And Madara... He can't entirely forget that Tobirama had referred to the attacker as 'it.' 

Well, regardless, Madara has been chewing at his own thoughts, and he’s already made his decision. “Enough,” he cuts in after the discussion threatens to turn circular again, “Tobirama, I believe you owe me a question.” 

Izuna tilts his head curiously. Mito’s brows lift toward her hairline. 

Red eyes narrow, but there’s hardly heat behind them. Madara had left the comment vague intentionally, but it seems the precaution was unnecessary. “Do I?” Tobirama counters, “I seem to recall that I left that decision to you.” 

Madara scowls and folds his arms across his chest, “Lunch, then. For dropping your guard and vanishing like an ass.” 

Hashirama makes a vaguely strangled, startled noise, but Madara ignores it just as he ignores the amused, entirely unsurprised snort from Izuna. 

Tobirama tips his head consideringly. The hint of an amused smirk at the corner of his lips undercuts the facade of the internal debate entirely. “My guard never dropped,” he counters, yet he still moves to the door when Madara takes the initiative to leave, “Furthermore,  _ you _ owe  _ me _ for eating nothing but rations for the past week.” 

There’s a shuffle behind Hashirama’s desk. A delighted noise that’s suddenly muffled. 

Madara supposes he can find it in himself to owe Mito and Touka. After all, lunch is amusing, Tobirama is alive and well, and he can ultimately unleash his frustrations on whatever foolish creature thought to attack someone dear to Madara under his own nose. 


End file.
